


Brian is sick

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt Brian, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Sickfic, Whump, caretaker others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:58:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: A place for some Brian whump, because why not.1. Bar fight (feat. Roger)2. Sad Bri3. He's not breathing! (mystery angst)4. Flu Brian with extra caretaking5. Nightmare (feat helpful Freddie)6. Blood coughing (ANGST)7. Sick on a plane8. Fatigue9.Blood coughing part 210. High fever





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to the idea to JUstpoisonous on tumblr. Hope you people enjoy!

It was after concert, another one in a list of many, and Brian was exhausted. He loved partying with the guys after playing, of course, but it had been too long and he was sighing into his beer, eyes drooping closed. But still, he couldn't leave. He wouldn't just leave his friend alone to get beaten up by some thugs because he was too quick tempered.

Brian was watching from the sidelines as Roger got into yet another fight. Those two enormous guys were baiting him too, and then making fun of Roger's small frame and high voice when he retaliated. And then Roger got more worked up, and those guys laughed at him more... It was not good. One of these times Roger was going to say something that made those guys really angry, and they would punch him senseless.

Brian sighed again.

“I don't think you will, you spineless stupid coward!”

Oh, Roger, no. The biggest man punched Roger before Brian could even get up from his chair.

At a quick pace,Brian got there, tried to make some peace, tried to say that Roger was too drunk but that they want to get into more trouble, that they would leave them alone and that they were sorry. But the thugs were past that by then, and Brian's meddling only made them angrier. It was the last straw.

“You want some too, you fucking giraffe? Well, you'll get some!”

And suddenly, before Brian could do anything, somebody had crossed his face with a punch, and then someone else, and suddenly he was on the floor of the pub, getting kicked on the ribs and the stomach. He put his hands up in his face and they kicked that too, when he tried to get away, they only got him harder. It was really fucking painful.

He could faintly hear Roger in the background screaming “Leave him alone!”, “Stop!!!”, and then, almost desperate “It's me you were angry with!”. But they only punched him in the face again, and kept kicking Brian.

This went on for a while, until the bartender and some of the others clients of the pub managed to get a hold of those two men, made them stop, threw them out and told them never to come back again. Brian was still on the floor, trying to recover his breathing, but hell, even breathing hurt right now. And trying to move was so painful he decided to just stay there, on the floor, breathing with difficulty and holding his hurt stomach, glad no one was kicking it anymore. It had been... quite a horrible experience, and now he was injured all over.

While those men had focused mostly on his midsection, his face hurt too from the punch he'd received, and the men had also kicked his arms and hands when he'd tried to protect his chest and face. Now everything hurt, and he had a notion that as time passed it would only hurt more. He sighed, again, almost wanting to cry. Could this night get any worse?

Roger's blue eyes greeted him, full of horror and concern and guilt.

“Bri, oh god, are you...Can you move? Should I call an ambulance? God, I...”

“Rog, calm down. Help me up.”

Brian saw stars as he got up. All of him hurt even when he was still, but the movement made everything worse.

“I'll call a taxi and we'll take you to a clinic or something to get checked, all right? They'll give you something for the pain, at least.”

And so they waited for the taxi and when it got there (it took so long, why was tome going so slowly? Brian just wanted it to be tomorrow, or next week, any time when his insides didn't hurt so much) they asked the driver to take them to the nearest ER. Brian was getting really tired and only wanted to go to sleep . Maybe that way all his wounds wouldn't hurt so much. But Roger kept bugging him, shaking him and asking him to stay awake.

Brian knew he must look terrible with all his face bloodied and got very startled every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection on the window of the taxi, but Roger looked quite bad, too. He had a split lip that ha bled a lot, and a reddened circle on his cheek from where he'd been punched. And he looked... concerned, more concerned than he'd ever seen him. Should he be worried too? Was he that bad?

He was quite bad. So bad that he nearly wasn't able to get out of the taxi and into the hospital, and the taxi driver had to help. He was in so much pain, everywhere.... Because it was so late, there wasn't a lot of people in the waiting room, and was seen quite soon. The doctors made sure that nothing was broken and gave him non-inflammatory medication and things for the pain. The rest of the night passed in quite a blur.

When he woke up the next morning, he wasn't all that sure how he'd made it to his bedroom. He had all his bandages, but he didn't feel as bad as the previous night, thanks to all that blessed medication. His looked terrible, all red and purple, but now it was only a matter of letting time heal his wounds. When he got out of the bedroom, he had a nice home-made breakfast prepared and laid out for him. Roger was there, and he looked like he hadn't slept the whole night.

“How are you? Did you sleep well?”

Roger, sounding like an overbearing mother? What was going on?

“I... did... What... What's this, Rog?”

“It's me trying to make up for last night. “

Brian was still too asleep to fully understand what Roger meant. He hadn't been the one kicking him, right? The orange juice was good, the coffee was good, and the muffins were good, even if all that munching hurt a bit his very sore face.

“Rog... were you trying to say that you think this is your fault?”

“But it is, isn't it? I was the one kept bothering those guys even after you told me to leave them alone, I was the reason you stayed behind when you were so tired, I was why you got hurt so bad. It may not have been me in person, but.... look at you! Now you must be hurting a lot, and it's all because of me, because I get angry too easily. And you didn't deserve that, none of that. You're always looking after me, getting me out of trouble... And look at the thanks you get. I'm so so so sorry, Bri.”

Brian appreciated the sentiment, it was good to see that Roger showing feelings beyond the usual mania, uncontrolled excitement and anger, but there was no need for this.

“It wasn't you hitting me.”

“But...”

“It wasn't you who decided to step in the middle of that, it wasn't you who chose that. Yes, I would like you to consider that other people might get hurt before you get in a fight, but the blame for this lays on those men, not on you.”

“I just... You look after us, and help get us, and me especially, out of trouble.. And when you needed me... But no more dwelling on that! I'm going to spend the next days looking after you, I promise. Did you take your meds? I'll get you your meds.”

Roger made good on his promise. The next couple of days Brian didn't have to do anything, but rest, read, let himself be looked after. Roger got out his pills for him, changed the bandages when needed or applied whatever cream was needed on the worst bruises. He did his best to let go of the guilt and focused on looking after Brian properly.

Brian was grateful, for being able to rest, for having some time for himself, for finally being able to not worry, and just let himself do whatever he pleased (if his bruised upper half allowed it, of course). Because he was hurt, he was supposed to do anything too straining, which gave him to think, to read, to write. It was pleasant. He was living in a vacuum of no responsibilities or chores, because Roger was looking after everything.

After some days the bruises turned to yellow and Brian was feeling like himself again. Although being hit while on the floor had been a terrible experience, the aftermath hadn't been all bad. He knew that Roger would think twice before responding to the bait of thugs, and he knew that he had someone to look after him when things were bad.

Apparently, even the darkest clouds had silver linings.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More emotional h/c than whump. Set in the mid 70s.

Sometimes Brian got sad. It was stupid, really, he knew that he had no actual reason to be sad, not at least this sad. He was young and talented, part of a band that was becoming more and more successful, he'd been really lucky to meet the others and become part of Queen. He was doing what he loved, he had great friends and there were a lot of people out there that admired him and the music he did. He should enjoying it, enjoying himself, and not... like this.

Sometimes, everything was too hard, and everything made him want to cry. Every bad thing that had happened to him in the last five years was suddenly in his head, and there were voices telling him that all this good stuff was going to be ruined too, somehow. Waking up was hard, getting up even harder and everything that he was supposed to do in his waking hours was near impossible.

He wanted to cry at everything, even the simple fact that he very much needed to cry was a reason for crying. But he couldn't do it, it wouldn't solve anything and he definitely couldn't do it in public, while the others were watching. They would would worry and awkwardly try to cheer him up and nobody would benefit from that. He would just use one of his pensive faces and hope nobody would notice.

Writing songs helped somewhat metabolize all of that melancholy and sadness into something that could be enjoyed. Something with a purpose, something that could even be considered beautiful. But already too many of his additions to the band were sad and depressing, song about death and darkness and feeling... depressed (“no star can guide our way in this cloud of dark and fear”, for example) and he didn't want to repeat himself, be the token sad guy of the band.

He wanted to be more, to be better but sometimes... sometimes he felt he never would be what he wanted, and that he would be stuck forever under that cloud of dark and fear. When he got back to his hotel room after a concert it was becoming harder to keep it together. There wasn't anything he wanted to eat on the hotel restaurant which meant he would have to call someone else, or even worse, get out of the room... Why was everything so complicated? Why couldn't he just have dinner in peace?

He let himself cry for a bit, alone, still with his stage clothes on, letting the tears make a mess of all the eyeliner and the make up. Great, now he looked like a sad clown, and his reflection in the mirror only made him feel worse. He should be out partying with the others, having fun, why was he so tired? Why did everything weigh on him so much?

He let himself go. What was the point of not crying?Nobody was there to tell him he had no reason to be like this, to chin up and appreciate all the good things in life. He was alone, and tired, and overwhelmed by everything. He put his hands on his face...tried to get out of this, but couldn't. This darkness but sucking him whole.

And then there was a knock on the door, and Brian tried to compose himself.

“Brian, darling! I miss youuuuuuuuuuuuuu” Great, Freddie was there. And probably wouldn't go away until he said something.

“Do you need something, Fred? I'm not feeling so good.”

That way maybe he would leave and go ahead, back to the party, knowing that there was no way he would join in the fun.

“Really, dear? I'm coming in!”

“No, Fred...”

The room wasn't locked (why hadn't he locked it?) and Freddie came in without giving Brian proper time to clean his face.

“Oh, darling, what's wrong?”

Brian kept trying to clean his face, hide his terrible condition, but it was too late, Freddie had already seen and sat on the bed next to him. There was no going back now, and there was no denying it. Shit.

“Did anything happen? It is about the concert? Because you gave a delightful performance, as usual.”

It was nice of Freddie to say so, and Brian drew one of his usual sad smiles. Freddie look so worried....

“Nothing happened. I just... I'm fine, Fred, really.”

“Nothing may have happened, but you're definitely not fine, you're a mess! I'm going to get some towels from the toilet and clean that face properly, ok?”

Brian was glad that Freddie didn't push they why he was like this. Sometimes it was hard to explain, sometimes there was no explanation, sometimes explaining was too hard. Freddie came back from the toilet with a wet towel and started cleaning Brian's face, carefully, gently while humming a song. It was... gentle and kind, and somehow made Brian feel better.

“You're allowed to feel sad, darling, although it breaks my heart to see you like this. You're so talented, you are... well quite amazing, darling, and it's painful how hard you can be with yourself.”

“Thanks, Fred.”

It really did mean a lot, especially coming from such an accomplished and incredible artist like Freddie Mercury himself.

“So, what can we do to distract you from this... dark pit? Let's put on some telly, call for some food...”

“You don't have to stay with me, Freddie, you should be out there, celebrating with the others. Don't make my... stupid mood ruin your night.”

“Nonsense! Spending time with you is never ruining anything, dear, you know I love you. And besides, you do so much for us... Break my and Roger's fights... put our thoughts in order... you're gentle and diplomatic when it's needed... You look after us and help us when we need you. You put up with all my eccentricities, with all the anger, you put up with Rog... It's high time someone repaid the favour, don't you think?”

It ended p being a very pleasant night, of light conversation, rice and almonds and discussions about music and life. Perhaps not a legendary night, but something that was needed. It was important to look after each other, especially with those people who often hid when they were feeling poorly (and Brian tended to do that – a lot). It was important that every one of them knew he had a safe place with the others, and was allowed to be themselves, even if that self could be, an angry, or demanding or sometimes depressing one.

The next day Brian looked better, and silently looked at Freddie with gratitude when he realised he hadn't told anything to the others about his bout of sudden unexplained sadness. There was no need to advertise it, but it was good to know that he had someone that wouldn't judge, or that get angry that he was bringing the mood down. It was good to know that he had someone there, and Freddie was glad to have helped.

Their amazing guitarist deserved all the love and all the comfort they could give him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The concert had been good, but not as good as Brian would have liked. It wasn't that he hadn't hit the right notes, or that he hadn't performed as he should, but it felt like maybe it was too cold? Not enough heart in it, or maybe it was because they had changed the songs and he hadn't yet warmed up to the new setlist. Whatever the reason, Brian decided to stay in his hotel room that morning, while the others went out to see the city for a bit, maybe get some drinks, the feel of the place. They were going to meet up for lunch some hours later.

The thing was, as much as Brian tried to concentrate on his guitar and his playing, he couldn't. He was getting a headache, slowly but surely getting a hold of him, and was starting to get strangely dizzy. Odd. He'd been perfectly fine this morning at breakfast and yesterday at night, it made no sense to develop a headache in such a short time, usually they took many hours to develop. It was probably nothing, so he decided to concentrate on what he meant to at least rehearse half of the songs before he was supposed to meet the others for lunch.

He really tried to dispel that headache, he really tried to concentrate despite the bouts of dizziness. The world could spin all that it wanted, as long as he had his guitar and knew what he had to play, then he could do it. He wouldn't spend what could be a useful morning doing nothing because he felt a bit sick, wouldn't lose more time to that.

But the more time passed, the worse he felt. He had trouble concentrating, and was beginning to feel dizzy, his stomach began to join hurting to the party. Odd. Had he eaten anything that was off? But the others had had the same breakfast, and they seemed perfectly all right. And it hadn't been that long, had it? Just a couple hours. It felt strange, that he would get such a headache and nausea in such a little time. He decided to rest of top of his bed for a bit, rest his eyes for a moment try to see if a couple of minutes resting would help.

It absolutely didn't help. He woke up an unspecified amount of time later, from a nap he didn't remember taking and had a lot of trouble recognising where the hell he was. A hotel... but where? Why? Brian was incredibly disoriented and dizziness was now even worse. He barely made it to the bathroom to throw up, and the room was spinning when he got there. He was feeling really, really light headed and had no idea why this was happening, why he was feeling so wrong. He kept forgetting where he was, or when it was (how long had he been in that room? Had it been forever?) and was starting to have trouble to keep his eyes open.

Something in the back of his head tried to warn him that this could be serious, that he had to do something to stop, that this wasn't right, it wasn't just some random feeling sick... But he was too dizzy and disoriented to create some good coherent thoughts. Supporting himself on the walls and mostly thanks to survival instinct, he managed to get to the phone... But was only able to take it in his hands and wasn't able to say anything before he collapsed, unconscious on his hotel room.

“Hello?” The receptionist said, on the other side of the line. “Anyone there?”

Someone was there... someone whose time was running out.

**

Brian was late, which was odd. Being late was usually just Freddie's feud, and they'd spent so long waiting for him that they tried not to be late themselves, as they were very aware of how frustrating it could be. They tried calling his room, but there was no answer, apparently the phone was off the hook. Maybe he'd taken it off because he wanted to concentrate on his guitar playing? To concentrate better. But nobody had that number, it felt odd.

“He's probably just too concentrated on his guitar to see what time it is.” Freddie said.” Let's go to his room, make a friendly visit.”

But the room was awfully silent. No guitar sound at all, no one moving when they knocked... No sound at all. Maybe he had left... But why would he leave without telling them? And not even show up when they were supposed to meet, no, this didn't sound like him. They asked in the reception if they had seen him come down, but they said, that no, they hadn't, and he was an easy guy to notice and remember. But he'd gone up to his room after breakfast and never come down. And now he wasn't answering when they knocked.

“Now that you mention it, there was a strange call from his room a while back.” The receptionist said. “They called but no one said anything, no one answered.”

“I don't like this.” Roger said, getting worried. Brian was just late, right? All this strange things (no one answering on his room, that strange call...) it all had a regular, normal explanation, right?

“Why don't I go with the masterkey and unlock the room to make sure everything is all right?” The reception lady said. “Maybe he left a note inside, explaining where he is, and didn't realise the room was locked.”

There was an unpleasant air of tension as they made their way back to Brian's room. If it had Roger or Freddie who missed an appointment they would have figured they were partying, or had met up with somebody that had made them not want to be disturbed... But Brian didn't normally worry them like that, or at all. The only times they'd been worried about Brian had been because of his health. They were really hoping this was not the case, again.

“Mr. May? I am from hotel management, I came with your friends. Are there? We're coming in.”

When they came in, there was an startled scream, a whispered no, and general gasps. Brian was thrown on the floor, blood on his mouth, completely unconscious. The hotel lady went to call for an ambulance, while the others where left with the reality that their friend and bandmate was in a very bad condition.

John knelt beside Brian in seconds, turned him around. The good news was that the blood was only coming from a wound on his lip, probably caused when he fell. The bad news... were many. Brian was pale, lifeless, and no matter how much John tried to wake him up, there was no answer. And not just that...

“He's not breathing! I don't think he's breathing, god!”

Freddie was just rooted to spot where he was, unable to move. This felt like a bad dream, Brian thrown there on the floor, John's desperate eyes (he's not breathing!), everything was so wrong, all of Brian's long legs sprawled on that hotel room, his curls stained with blood, his eyes closed, so closed, his chest not moving... No...

Thankfully, the medical personnel was there in a very short time, and they were able to take Brian, put all of him in a stretchers and take him down, to the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital. John went with him, as he seemed to be the most functional of the three members left, and the one who could give the paramedics some information.(Not of what happened, because he had no idea, but of his age, name, those things...)

Freddie was still too stunned. He felt that he was still trapped in that image of them finding Brian on the floor, thrown, with blood on his mouth (he's not breathing!), he tried to think about something else, Brian would get the attention he needed now (he's not breathing!), the only thing they had to do was go to the hospital, be there for him (he's not...)

A small voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Is he dead? Fred, is he dead?”

Roger. Roger who was breathing in an odd shallow, too quick way and seemed even more out of it than he was. Roger whose eyes were bright with tears. Oh, god.

“IS HE?!! IS HE DEAD??”

Freddie hugged the blonde, with all his strength, running his hands on the drummer's back, not having realised how shaken he was.

“They wouldn't have put the lights and the sirens if he was dead, they wouldn't have sped so much. He's alive, of course he is, Rog, and I'm sure he'll be fine. He's... he's alive. Let's take a taxi to the hospital, ok?”

The ride to the hospital was... harrowing, same as it was for John in the ambulance. They'd put an oxygen mask on Brian, hooked him up to a lot of things, injected him with a lot of stuff, and it was horrible to see how limp Brian was while they did all that, how unresponsive. They asked John a lot of questions he didn't know how to answer and when he asked if Brian would be all right he only received a sympathetic look and a “We'll do everything we can.”

In the hospital the three of them met again, wracking their nerves as they waited for some news. Some time later they had a call from the hotel, apparently the central heating system had a leak, and some rooms in Brian's floor had been getting a nice amount of carbon monoxide, also known as “the silent killer” because it had no smell, no colour and no taste – it was practically impossible to detect. Goodie. The fact that Brian had been breathing something called “the silent killer” did nothing to ease their nerves.

They only let them in some three hours later, and told them not to make too much noise, because the patient was sleeping.

He still had one of those oxygen masks on – apparently plain old oxygen was the main treatment for this type of poisoning. Brian looked... peaceful in that bed, as if he was just sleeping after a long day. Roger was crying, not knowing if it was because of the shock of being so close to lose him or the joy at seeing him breathing again...

Because, yes, now Brian was breathing again... and the rest felt like they could breathe too.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Brian was woken up by his own coughing. He felt like the most absolute and complete crap. He had a horrible pulsating headache and felt at the same time too hot and to cold. His voluminous hair was plastered to his head and neck, thanks to all the sweat that his raging fever was producing. It was becoming more and more complicated to breathe, and when he did pass some air he could only wheeze or let out dry painful coughs. He hadn't felt so bad in years and was made a ball under his sheets, wishing he had no body.

It was just the flu he knew, and so far he'd been able to keep up with the others in the band despite being ill, but now...Yesterday's recording session had been so long and complicated, and because he was sick he hadn't been all that good on the guitar and had been forced to repeat and repeat and repeat... He'd ended up so tired that when he finally made it back to his apartment he just collapsed under the sheets of his bed.

And now he was waking up one million hours later, feeling cold and still wearing yesterday's clothes. He probably smelled like crap too, and hadn't felt so horrible in years. He was tired, achy, hurting and sweaty and had no strength to do much about it.

Today they were supposed to advance a lot on the recording because they were already quite late and the previous day they got a very long and detailed scolding about it, and were now expected to send the bosses that were producing the album a detailed report of their progress in and every day. There may be fines if they didn't, ugh.

But Brian couldn't, absolutely couldn't get up from the bed, much less shower and change clothes and get out of home and go to the studio and play guitar, All the while standing, on his own two wobbly legs. No, no, he couldn't. He coughed miserably into his bedsheets and hoped that the rest of the world would stop existing.

But it didn't. People begun calling on the phone but Brian didn't manage to get up to answer in time. Not that he wanted to answer or had any voice for it, but felt bad for not answering. In the end he did get up, but it was too late to answer. Knowing that the outside world wasn't going to disappear, he managed to push himself to the bathroom and had a quick shower to clean all that sweat and make himself more presentable.

The trouble came when he got out of the shower. Unable to stand for much longer he simply fell on the couch of the living room, wearing only a towel, and closed his eyes. This wasn't good, he knew. He should be finding his clothes and getting ready.

“Brian! I know that you're there! It's Roger, I'm letting myself in!”

Oh, god, he'd given his spare key to Roger, hadn't he? Why would he do something like that? And he'd come with Freddie, too, and they would see him made a wet ball on the couch...

Freddie immediately made a face when he saw Brian.

“Oh, darling, you look so poorly! I'm going to get you some towels and some blankets and I'll call Deaky and tell him to bring some flu medication from the pharmacy... Why didn't you call us sooner, darling? Maybe you were too tired, it's okay.

Roger was suddenly in front of him with a sympathetic smile.

“Flu got you bad, huh?”

His sympathy turned to concern when he put a hand on the guitarist forehead.

“Jeez, you're burning up, Bri!”

Brian had hardly reacted to his friend's hand on his forehead, although he had to admit that it was pleasantly cool.

“Why didn't you tell us were this sick? Fred, have you cancelled the recording?”

Brian shook his head, weakly, slowly.... No. He could make it.

“I can... I can come in... I just... if you give me a bit of time...”

Roger scoffed.

“Yeah, sure you can, Bri. No, today you're letting us look after you, and you're resting the whole day, is that understood? Just let us do the work.”

And so the pampering started. Brian was dressed in the comfiest warmest clothes they could find in the house and Freddie and Roger carefully and gently dried his hair with some towels. (“Wouldn't a blow drier be quicker? Roger asked, and Freddie made another face. “You want to ruin his fabulous curls? Besides, we don't need the extra germs.And this more... gentle.)

Everything they did regarding Brian was now very gentle, even Roger softened his sharp edges and anger bursts to make Brian more comfortable. The guitarist found himself in a cocoon of blankets, and when he coughed Freddie and Roger looked at each other.

“Tea!” They said in unison.

In a couple of minutes Brian also had a steaming cup of tea in his hands. It felt almost too much.

“Thanks... guys... but you can (cough cough) go now. I'll be fine. You don't need to...”

“Of course we need to! Shut up and let us do this little something for you, after everything you do for us.” Roger said, firm.

Brian smiled a bit despite his wretched state. He was still sweating from the fever, flushed on the face but very pale everywhere else. The next hour John arived and between the three of them they made sure to provide the best care possible. Apart from the medicine, Deaky had brought some soup, figuring that probably neither Roger nor Freddie could do something decent.

They were spent their time making sure Brian was warm, comfortable, well fed (even if his body only accepted tea and sop at that time) and if possible entertained. Roger played games with Brian (easy stuff, like four in a row), John made some housework so that Brian wouldn't have to worry about it, Freddie made sure there was enough and proper medicine and dealt with the record label people.

“I don't care about your money and I don't care about no contract that I signed. My guitarist is ill and the band's first and only priority is his health. No, of course I won't record anything with another guitarist, that absurd! You insult just suggesting such a thing. Ugh, you deal with your.. legal stuff. No, none of us are coming in, we're busy, bye!”

For a couple of days someone was always with Brian, even when he was just reading, they made all sorts of soups and teas, rubbed some of that menthol ointment in his chest... It was pleasant. A nice break from their lives of never ending recording and touring.

Calming, and familiar. Brian felt bad that he was putting off the album, and constantly worried that he would pass the flu to the others... But the other three were very reassuring, making sure that Brian was looked after, calm, good. Even the best of them could get sick, and even the toughest of them deserved some occasional tender loving care.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set when they are in the Ridge farm, recording.

While on the farm, Freddie often stayed up until very late writing songs and practicing what he had written. It felt that those hours of the night when no one else was awake were the best, the most creative ones. Sometimes Paul was around but he was quiet enough that Freddie could keep alive the illusion of being alone.

That night he’d been singing until about three am, and although it was very late, he was really happy with the work he’d done. That was a very good song that he had finished, and he was very satisfied with the complete product. He’d been perfecting also the rest of the songs he’d done that week, and felt that he was really advancing on the album. Things were looking quite good.

He didn’t expect anyone to be up at this hour, but when he got to the floor where the rooms where in, he could hear someone, there were some noises. He would imagine it was Roger with one of his many friends… But whoever it was they weren’t having fun, which almost completely ruled Roger out.

The noises were small, plaintive, and there was true suffering in them. Somebody was having a real hard time in the middle of the night in that farm in nowheresville, and chances were it had to be one of his friends. It couldn’t be John as he was in another floor, and the sound was coming from somewhere closer.

Obviously there was no one in Freddie’s room (but he had to check, didn’t he?) and Roger was in his room, sleeping only in his boxers, sucking on a blanket corner and with a lazy smile on his face. So it wasn’t John, it wasn’t Roger…

Freddie probably should have guesses it, shouldn’t he? Out of all of them, Brian seemed the most prone to nightmares. He was the one that thought everything through and then again, and you only had to listen to the songs he’d written to know that he had some tendency towards depression and general insecurity and sadness.

It was very easy to forget when you were with him during the day, he was lively and gave a lot to the band, but when night came or when you got some one on one time with him…There were a million layers to their guitarist, he was so much more than just the science person who wrote a lot of songs and was able too sneak guitar solos everywhere. So much more.

“No!”

Brian let out from his bed and Freddie looked at the curls moving around in the bed, the familiar face scrunched up in pain. Freddie wished he could o something to alleviate his friend’s pain, and wondered what could be going on in Brian’s head, what could be the cause of all of this.

*

He was playing the guitar and it was stained with blood.

His arms were bleeding, in so much pain, and they would only bleed more if he tried to stop playing. He had to continue, or he would die. But it hurt, it hurt so much. All of him hurt too, not just the arms (although those hurt so very badly)

He was coughing up blood and he could taste the metallic flavor of blood on his mouth. He could taste as came out, but couldn’t stop it. His lung hurt too, his chest, as he coughed up all that blood.

But he had to keep playing.  He played and played and played and he kept playing until his hands were drenched in blood. Until his throat was drowning in blood.

The audience was angry at him and was continuously booing him. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, he really was doing his best, what more did they want from him? But the more time passed the angrier they got, the more they booed him, and Brian knew that somehow, in some way he was failing them, failing everyone as he bled and tried to get the notes right.

Even his bandmates seemed angry at him, disappointed, unhappy. They were looking at him in anger and Brian knew that he was screwing up, that he shouldn’t be bleeding so much, shouldn’t be hurting so much because he was hurting the audience with his terrible playing, and he was hurting the band being a letdown.

He tried to call his friend’s names but they were getting further and further, darker and darker, and they were shaking their heads and Brian couldn’t reach them, he tried but he couldn’t, and he would probably never be able to reach them again…

He was alone, alone under blinding lights, deafened by the boos of the public, forgotten by his friends. Alone, hated, choking on his own blood, he heard his name being called with urgency, with concern…

“Brian! Brian!”

And he opened his eyes.

*

When Freddie heard his own name being called in anguish he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t just leave Brian to continue being a victim of his won treacherous mind, to continue being in so much distress.

The guitarist was tossing and turning, tear tracks on his pale cheeks. Freddie absent mindedly wondered how often had this happened, how many night had Brian spent on the throes of those horrible dreams, suffering and unable to wake up.

“Brian!”

Those familiar eyes opened and looked at the man on his room, calling his name, confused.

“What…?”

“You were having a nightmare, darling. A pretty bad one from the looks of it.”

Slowly, Brian sat up on the bed, still trying to shake off the uneasiness and fear from the dream that had felt so terribly real. It had taken a hold of him, and it would take a while until he was ok again.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Freddie asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sometimes it helps.”

“I was playing… But, I was bleeding too, I… couldn’t stop bleeding, and everyone was booing me. I tried to get it right, but I couldn’t there was so much blood everywhere.”

Well, that sounded awful. Freddie noticed that Brian was still shaking and embraced him tightly, hushing him and running a comforting hand up and down the taller man’s back. It felt wrong to see Brian like this, when he was usually so whole, so put together.

“It was just a dream, ok? No one’s ever going to boo because you’re an amazing artist. And if they do they’ll have to face me and my fists of steel.”

Brian tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It just felt so real.”

The guitarist’s eyes were bright and it was obvious that he’d been crying in his sleep. Freddie wanted to be angry at whoever had hurt his friend like this… But had no one to be the target of his anger.

“Let me make a cup of chamomile tea, darling, wait here.”

That way he could give Brian some time to compose himself, clean his face and recover a bit. And the tea helped a lot, even if it was simply because it was hot.

When Freddie came back Brian didn’t look much better, which worried the singer. Brian thanked his friend for the tea with a small voice, and looked out of the window with a heartbreaking expression.

“You were saying our names, in your dream.”

Brian nodded.

“You were there, but you were angry at me, and getting further and further, leaving me alone with all that blood… I’m sorry, I feel stupid.”

“All right” Freddie answered, again perched on the corner of the bed. “I know I sometimes get angry at you, but never think that would be angry at you for being sick and not playing properly. You’re allowed to be ill, even if you have been before. And you don’t have to bleed yourself dry for the band. Losing you or having you in bad condition hurts everyone, Queen and our music, but us too. We need you to be well, Brian.”

“Thanks, Fred. But don’t worry about it, it was just a dream.”

But dreams always mean something, don’t they? From that day on, Freddie bowed to check on Brian any time he got, check that he was well fed, that he was sleeping… That he was well, beyond the usual “I’m fine”s and superficial smiles.

He hoped to never hear the sound of Brian screaming in pain ever again, not in dreams, not in reality. He hoped for his friend to be well for many many years to come.


	6. Chapter 6

It had come out of the blue. Nobody had realised anything, no one had seen any warning signs. They had been lost in another of their many many fights, and it had gone unnoticed for all of them. For hours, hell the whole evening, Brian hadn't uttered a single word and the other three hadn't noticed, engrossed as they were arguing. This time it wasn't the usual Roger and Brian, it wasn't the also increasing Roger and Freddie. This time it was Roger and (surprisingly enough) John.

Roger wasn't happy with the song they were rehearsing and couldn't understand why John had suggested something like that for Queen. Maybe it could work with another band, maybe he could something like that him by himself, but it didn't match the band, it didn't go well with the rest of the members of the band. Roger also felt that John wanted this kind of music for the rest of the album and wanted to stop it before it went too far.

But he was getting little support from Freddie, who was “always open to new directions” and would allow this terrible thing to happen, because he was like that, and probably thought that making a bad album was outrageous and worthy of Queen. (Ok, maybe not so much but Roger was pissed and wanted to throw something out of the window and Freddie's nonchalance at the whole was only pissing him more.) 

“Brian, back me up!”

Surely Brian must be on his side, surely he too could see that this was a bad step, that this was something that should be stopped. Brian was smart man, it was odd that he hadn't spoken out yet, usually he was very vocal about his opinions, and he always had an opinion.

But Brian could hardly register what was going on around him. Simply drawing air was becoming a chore, and he felt as if he wasn't himself anymore, as if he were miles away from his body. He was trying to get back, sure, but it was becoming harder and harder. And while he was out there he couldn't talk, and he couldn't move properly and it was complicated to simply blink.

“Brian?”

Roger was talking to him, but he couldn't answer him. He had suddenly no air, and everything had become too complicated. Breathing, blinking, talking, he tried to say something, but couldn't. A flash of pain ran through him and he managed to let out a small whimper.

“Guys, I think something's wrong with Brian!”

“You're just trying to change the subject because you know you're losing the fight.”

“Forget about that, something's wrong, really.”

Something was indeed very wrong, but Brian didn't have the strength to communicate it. As he couldn't walk or talk, he tried to hold on to Roger's arm in front of him, and squeezed it when another flash went through him. He didn't know what was happening, he didn't know why this was happening, but he did know that he couldn't stand anymore. His legs wouldn't support him, his eyes wouldn't stay open, and he wanted, needed to sleep.

He started falling, but it wasn't a clean fall. First his knees buckled, softly but surely, as black spots started plaguing his vision. He tried to hold on to Roger and he managed to grip the drummer's arm with both his hands, but could feel that he was losing strength. It was a scary feeling: he was falling and somehow he knew that he was not going to be able to put himself upright again, couldn't come back up, only fall and fall and fall.

Brian felt extremely faint and his chest was heavy, and it hurt. It hurt in a numb yet overpowering way, something that suddenly took up all of his reality, his whole world, that was getting darker and fainter, blurrier. There was something climbing up its way through his throat and Brian let it out, certain that he was losing himself.

Roger lowered him to the floor with teary wide eyes. Brian had been fine until now, right? How could he have gotten so sick in such a short time? If he wouldn't had been so busy with his stupid fight he would have realised, maybe that Brian wasn't a-ok, that something was missing. If he hadn't been so lost on himself... if he had paid some more attention....

“What... what's happening?”

John appeared behind Roger, looking at their friend with concern evident on his face. He too had not noticed anything odd about him, nothing different... But he had been too quiet, hadn't he? And now he looked like he was two steps from death's door. It hurt to even look at.

“Fred, call an ambulance.” He said, trying to be useful, helpful. It was difficult to maintain a soft calm voice and not just lose it, but he managed.

And then foamy red blood started coming out of Brian's mouth, scaring him and Roger even more.

“Brian, what....”

The guitarist's eyes had been looking at nowhere, out of focus, hazy. As if they couldn't pick out a place, as if Brian was already gone. But suddenly they came into focus, looked at his bandmates on top him and softly said:

“Sorry.”

And then his eyes closed and he became completely limp, lifeless. His hands on Roger's arm lost their grip, suddenly slack.

“Brian! Brian!!! Wake up! WAKE UP!!”

It was easily the scariest thing Roger had seen in his entire life (and he had seen some very scary shit). But seeing Brian like that pale, unresponsive, losing the fight after trying so much to hold on to him... This wasn't something simple and easy like a cold, but didn't seem to be a seizure either, as there was no convulsing... And in strokes people were at least partly paralysed, right? And Brian had been able to move both his arms, both his eyes. So what the hell was this, then?

“The ambulance is here. Who is going to ride with him?” Freddie said, suddenly.

Roger was still rooted to the spot, couldn't even hear.

“You do it. I think you'll be the most helpful.”

Because Roger was absolutely and completely freaking out, trying to wake Brian up not getting anywhere, with eyes bright and filled with horror, calling his friend's name frantically. And John... he was having trouble processing what he was seeing, what had happened. Probably Freddie would be more able to give the medical personnel the info they needed.

But the taxi ride to the hospital was the worst guilt trip ever. Roger and John kept going over the events of that evening, trying to find clues, wondering if they should have known. If they had failed a dear friend because they had been too self-centerd, and had been blind to poor Brian's suffering. If they hadn't been figthing... They would have seen that Brian wasn't all right earlier, maybe got him some medical care before things got so dire.

Then they met Freddie in the hospital the singer was even more shaken than they were, pale-faced, frightened. Apparently, driving in the ambulance had been no picnic drive, either.

“They kept injecting him with needles and trying to get him to wake up... but when he did, he only coughed up more blood and looked dioriented, I don't think he even recognised me...”

“That's bad. That's got to be bad.” Roger said, chewing on his thumb. Freddie nodded.

“And I could tell that the medics were worried, too, and apparently all his vitals were off. I'm so scared guys, this is something big and bad that's happening to him.”

Waiting for news in the waiting room was hell. Freddie couldn't stop pacing, and Roger yelled at him to stop and felt bad because REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED THE LAST TIME YOU ARGUED. Deaky was trying to get a hold of Brian's parents, but they weren't at home and he had no idea of where they might be. He looked at the doctors anxiously.

Each of those doctors could be coming at them to tell them that Brian was gone, or dying, or that he wouldn't wake up again. Eventually, a Doctor did come for them.

“Who is here for.. Brian May?”

“We are. What's the news, doc?”

“I'm afraid I don't have great news. We know that the origin of the hemorrhage is in the lungs, and it's getting to quite severe but....”

“But what?”

“Where's the next of kin?”

“We couldn't contact them. But we are listed as next of kin, too.” John said. (They've done this in case something happened while on tour and it was too difficult to get a hold of the actual next of kin)

“Then you have a complicated decision to take. To... try and stop this, there are two options: endovascular embolisation and surgery. The endovascular treatment has good response, but doesn't solve the underlying problem, so there could be some complications, and believe me, your friend is not in a state for complications.”

“And the surgery?”

“The surgery could fix the bleed at its source, probably, but... It has a high rate of mortality.”

“How high?”

“70%. I'll let you think about it, but I'll need an answer in the next fifteen minutes. Time is working against us.”

The remaining members of Queen had been left heartbroken and horrified and the grim outlook for Brian, at how little his chances seemed to be. And now they had to decided on his life – a decision that could mean he lived or died.

Roger let out a scream that shook the entire ward.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably could be made into a two parter. Also this is not, never, in case, something that pretends to be medically accurate. At all. Thanks for clicking and hope you like this ep too!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitting pause on the horrifying angst for some sickfic fluff. Hope you like!

He'd been feeling... odd, even before they the plane. Queasy, dizzy, not sure of how the world was working. Light-headed. Brian didn't think it was anything to be concerned about, and absolutely wasn't going to bother his bandmates over something like this. It wasn't that important. Maybe he hadn't slept enough, maybe he just needed a little nap. Yeah, that was probably it. 

But when they took off Brian felt even worse. His head was thumping and he couldn't fall asleep, no matter how much he wanted. And it had been happening for some weeks now – he couldn't fall asleep, or he woke up too soon and then couldn't fall asleep back again. It was probably why he was so terribly tired all the time. He was supposed to be young and energetic, right? Roger and Freddie were always moving about, doing things, talking. In the mean time, Brian was so tired he sometimes couldn't get up from the couch.

This was not right, but he figured that he shouldn't be making a world of it. Sure, he had more trouble sleeping, sure he was more tired than usual, and sure his hands and feet got cold over nothing these days, but there was no need to concern friends or call doctors over nothing. He was ok, just tired. Exhausted, really. But no one needed to concern themselves with that.

Everyone had their own troubles. Roger had heard several people tell him that his voice was irritating and offputting, and he was pissed. Very much pissed. They never mentioned his drumming in the reviews, only Freddie's voice and Brian's solos, and that pissed him off, too. The only mentions were to how pretty he was an how many fans he had. And he was a fucking great drummer.

Freddie was trying to answer to a bunch of letters while trying to organise a better setlist and thinking about what their new stage outfits should be (not just his, everyone's!) and he was very busy and very entertained. He had no time for anything else, much less stupid complaints about being tired and not able to sleep. That wasn't anything worth mentioning, even.

And John... John was next to him on the plane, and he hadn't spoken to him in a while. Maybe he should be showing some interest, but the dizziness was suddenly back, and he was having trouble to keep his eyes open, much less concentrate enough to speak, and say words. The world was spinning, his head was spinning and he felt like crap. He only wanted to curl in a bed and slowly die. But still had seven hours of flight. Oh, joy.

John left his book when he heard Brian's strange quick breathing. The older man seemed completely out of it, too quiet, only moving to close his eyes as if in pain.

“You okay there, Brian? You're white as a sheet.”

He didn't use to be this pale, right? He'd never been a specially tan guy, but this level of paleness was unprecedented. Bad. And a plane was not a good place to get sick.

John put his hand of Brian's forehead, checking for fever, but the guitarist wasn't specially warm. That was good. The fact Brian still hadn't uttered a single word wasn't, at all. Neither was the fact that he held on to Deaky's arm, as if looking for support in a moving boat, even if there were no turbulence and the plane was going smoothly.

“...'m just a bit dizzy.” Brian said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

And he was only getting dizzier and dizzier. He tried to get up to go to the bathroom, maybe freshen up, and managed to do it, but when he got to the aisle he fell on a dead faint, making the other passengers jump and scream, startled.

John, Freddie and Roger were there in an instant, looking at the fallen man with a concerned expression. What had happened to Brian? He'd fainted, obviously but why? What if something was seriously wrong and he needed medical attention? They still had six hours to go, and although there probably was a first aid kit around, if something was very wrong they wouldn't be able to help, and would have to watch Brian get worse and worse as the minutes passed agosingly slowly.

“Are there any doctors around? Anyone?”

“I'm a nurse, I may be of help.” An older lady said, and they let her pass.

"Aw, poor darling." The woman said, with a sympathetic smile.

The rest of the boys were very worried, they tried to wake Brian, but got no response. Why wasn't he waking up?! He had to wake up! The woman didn't seem to be too concerned, which John took as a good sign. She was the professional, right?

“Ok, here's what we are going to do, boys. We're going to place a pillow under his head.” (A flight attendant ran to get a pillow and was back in seconds. Roger carefully placed it under the curly hair) “and we're going to put his legs up, so the blood can flow better.”

Freddie quickly went to do it, but had trouble reaching the end of Brian's legs in that tiny hallway between rows of seats.

“Jeez, has he always been this long? He has more leg than...”

“Fred, I don't think this is the time.” Roger cut, sharply.

The nurse lady talked to the flight attendant and asked for something sugary, like a soda, for when Brian woke up. The boy was too pale, and would likely benefit from some sugar and energy.

He did wake up, after a couple of minutes, making everyone on the plane sigh with relief. It had been a scary sight, all of that boy falling so quickly and they were all hoping for quick recovery. He'd seemed such a nice young man, even helped a mum with her bags before. A true gentleman.

When he opened his eyes, Brian had trouble remembering where he was, and faintly asked.

“What... happened?”

“You fainted. Scared us half to death, too.” Roger said, relief evident in his voice. Brian was awake. That was the important thing. The three of them helped him back to his seat, where his head lulled from side to side a bit worryingly. Then the flight attendant gave him the soda and some crackers and candy, with a kind smile. Brian smiled back, with what little strength he could muster.

“When we land, the first thing we're doing is call a doctor for you. No buts, darling, this is serious.” Freddie said, with a grave expression rarely seen on him.

“But I...”

“What did I say? No buts. Let us take care of you for once.”

“Why didn't you tell us that you were feeling poorly?” Deaky said. Brian had obviously been feeling bad before and said nothing.

“Didn't want... to bother you. You have... other things to worry.”

“If you think stage outfits and critics are more important than you, you're dead wrong, dear. Why are you like this? So confident with your guitar, and yet...” Freddie just decided to plant a kiss on those curls and think about it later. Now was the time for Brian to focus on recovering, not for deep conversation.

“Thanks.” Brian said, with one of his characteristic sad smiles.

He managed to fall asleep after that, softly putting his head on John's shoulder. The bassist didn't mind. Brian deserved the rest.

After they landed Freddie made well on his word and a doctor was called. They found out that Brian had quite a case of anemia, and gave him some iron supplements, but mostly told him to eat more – not healthy, just more. He was a bit concerned about how thin Brian's arms were, and even recommended a burger place.

A burger place where they went to, and bought Brian the biggest, most enormous vegetarian burger ever, with a dish of “please tell us when you're feeling bad”. Brian was still too pale and tired, but now he could get better. He really wanted not to be so tired anymore.

But his friends bowed to make sure he got all the energy he needed from now on. Hell, they would be his energy if he needed them – or his place to rest.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Brian was so tired that he was having trouble to even keep his eyes open. Which made absolutely no sense, because he'd slept plenty, but still... It was hard to do the music properly, it was hard to pay attention to anything, when he was so thoroughly incredibly exhausted.

And the only advice he got was to rest more, which was absolutely useless. He had slept over nine hours the previous night and still woke up as if he'd spent the whole night running after being chased by dinosaurs. The thing was that he wasn't ill, he didn't have a fever or any other symptoms, he didn't have a cough or anything like that, so really he had no excuse to be feeling so poorly.

And it made everything really hard, especially doing something that required concentration, and a decent amount of it. Like you know, playing the guitar. Usually it was something that came to him naturally, without thinking or having to make any effort. Playing guitar was something instinctive to him, something natural and something he was good at, that usually brought him joy. He'd been playing guitar since he was quite young and it was a part of him as much as eating or breathing. But sometimes even as simple as that could become difficult. Sometimes everything was too much.

So that particular day he was unable to hit the correct notes and kept messing up, putting off the whole recording session. While Roger had flawlessly recorded all the drum parts and on record time, Brian kept messing and hardly a take could be used for the album. He felt terrible about it, but it seemed that the more he tried, the more he was letting everybody down.

“I'm sorry.” He said, but knew his apologies were useless.

“Sorry won't cut it.” Someone's voice said from the recording booth, on the other side of the glass. “

“Focus, Brian. Do it properly”

And they started again and Brian managed to get one part right. But the miracle didn't happen again. The next bit was wrong and the next was wrong too, people were getting angry at him but he was so tired.

“Could we leave this for tomorrow? I'm not feeling so good.”

“Well, you look perfectly fine. Suck it up and do things properly for a change.” Roger's voice said from behind the glass. And it didn't help Brian at all.

That was unfair, Brian thought. He usually did things okay, maybe not up to every one's standards, but it was more a matter of taste than anything else. He'd thought that he was valued because he did a good job, he thought did others thought he was good with the guitar. As much as he tried to contain himself, tears prickled in his eyes. He was just too tired to pretend he was the bigger man.

“Don't be such a baby, Brian!”

He didn't want to be a baby, but Brian was so tired he that if he was forced to continue he would crumble into little pieces, shatter like glass. He was just so so tired.

His limbs were heavy, the guitar weighed a ton (a million of tons) and he could hardly hold on to it... Even his hair weighed too much and was hurting him- He closed his eyes, trying to recover himself, trying to focus. It was hard. The world weighed too much on him, everything hurt and was too much, too loud, too complicated.

He put his hands on his guitar again and forgot what part he was supposed to be playing. Ugh. Even worse. His memory refused to cooperate and the others would get more and more angry.... His head hurt.

Freddie came from the door, followed by John.

“We're letting John do next part now, ok? I'll drive you home.”

Brian just nodded, happy to be able to be tired alone and at peace, and happy he didn't have to drive himself. At least this way he would be left alone. Freddie didn't take Brian to his place, but to his own place, because apparently he wanted to “keep an eye on you, darling.”. Brian would have preferred to be at his own place, but felt too devoid of energy to argue. The singer gave his friend some pyjamas (too short, but comfy) and Brian practically threw himself to the guest bed, rejecting all of Freddie's offers of food and drink.

Roger came by to either a) apologise if Brian was really sick or b) tell him to step up his game if he wasn't. When he didn't find him in his place he went to Freddie's where he found the singer smoking, with a worried look in his eye. When Roger asked about Brian Freddie told him he was in bed.

“I'm worried about him, Rog. It's not like Brian to mess up so much, not like him to be so tired at seven in the evening. Something's going on.”

“You think?”

“Brian is many things, he's stubborn, he can be too full of himself, but he's never been lazy. If he say he's tired, it's because he's tired. You know that. And he isn't stupid either. If he can't do things properly it's probably because his body won't allow him.”

Roger thought about it. It really wasn't like Brian to mess up so much, and he seemed honest when he said he wasn't feeling good. Now he felt bad for screaming at him. If he'd really fallen asleep at 7 pm, something had to be wrong.

When after an amazing fourteen hours of sleep, the next morning he woke up with raccoon eyes and somehow still feeling impossibly tired, Freddie and Roger (who had decided to stay and sleep on the couch because he'd got worried too, and didn't want to leave until he'd made sure Brian was better) decided that something had to be done, because all this tiredness couldn't be normal.

Brian wanted to complain that it wasn't important, that they couldn't bother the doctors for something as simple as being too tired, convinced that he would be dismissed and told to rest more and maybe have some coffee. Maybe look at him angrily for wasting their time. And maybe that would have been the case if low low energy Brian had gone alone to the doctor and hadn't been able to explain properly what was going on and why it could be serious.

But he wasn't alone, Freddie went with him and made sure that the doctors realised how very serious this was, and that it should be treated immediately. (Roger was in the waiting room too, ready to yell at anyone who told Brian to simply sleep more because that clearly wasn't the issue).

It was tough, when your only symptom was being tired. It could be nothing, or it could the symptom of one million things. Brian had thought that it was something normal, how absolutely exhausted he was lately, because hey maybe it was the work, or maybe it was that his life wasn't healthy enough, something like that. He hadn't thought that the tiredness could be masking something more serious, something that actually needed treatment. He just thought he was being a baby.

In the end, some blood tests were made and it turned out that Brian had some hormonal imbalance that caused him to be more tired (fatigue, the doctors called it) and more depressed (again not something that Brian had thought could be a symptom of anything because he was often sad – he was a sad guy in general). He was given some medication and told to warn people if he was feeling too tired or needed to sleep too much. (Which would be difficult, how to measure how tired you are when it's worrying and when is you not resting enough? Worrisome. Complicated.)

The others felt terrible that they'd yelled at Brian when he had an actual medical condition. Even if he hadn't, everyone was allowed to be tired once a while, and Brian had never given them any problems, so yeah. A bit more of patience was probably needed. Brian smiled at the other two, told them not worry and they felt even worse.

Then they vowed to listen more and bitch less.... And never take anything for granted.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 6

Those fifteen minutes were filled with horrors and tension, and screams.

“I'm not going to send Brian to his death!” Roger practically growled. “I won't live the rest of my days knowing that I made the decision that led to him dying. He's barely thirty for god's sakes. We can't do this to him.”

“The option being what? Patching him up so when he dies in two days we won't feel as guilty? We need to do what's best for him, not what¡s best for us. We need to give him his best chance, his best opportunity to survive.” Freddie answered, equally angry.

“70% of fatality is his best chance? That's what's best for him? I won't have him killed by some surgeon and then go around calmly because we did what was best for him. Not when there are other options.

“...He'll suffer less.” John said, low and solemn. “If he goes into surgery and never wakes up. The end will still be horrible, but he'll be sedated and won't feel anything. If we do the patching up thing and he wakes up and realises he's dying... He'll hurt more, spend his last moments suffering, and watching us hurt and cry for him. I wouldn't want that for Brian. He's suffered enough.”

Out of all of them, Brian was probably the one that suffered the most, hurt more intensely. Not exactly because he'd had the worst life but because of his personality – he simply was like that. So incredibly bright, but so full of insecurities.

Brian really didn't to wake up to learn that he was dying, didn't need all of that pain to stain his last moments on earth. He was a good man and great musician, and he deserved a peaceful passing. He didn't need the extra hurt of having to say goodbye to all his friends, of realising he would never play again, never grow old.

“So we're giving up on him already, is that it?” Roger screamed. “We're doing this because his death will be better. Fuck you!”

Sure, Brian was a person with a great capacity for sadness and finding out about this would break him into little pieces, but that wasn't a good enough reason to make a decision. They had to do what was best for Brian medically, and as far as they knew, the surgery was the only thing that could completely solve the issue that was killing him.

Still, it was tough, and the other two understood Roger perfectly. Their friend's life was in their hands. There were apparently many chances that Brian wouldn't survive, leaving them with the notion that they had killed their friend, that maybe he would have lived if they'd chosen the other option, the other treatment. It was so horrible, because their decision could mean that they would never see their friend again.

Funerals, mourning. Brian would be dead.

Roger understood why the others were pushing for the surgery. The other treatment would have complications and then Brian would die, because the underlying problem wasn't solved. But it hurt. Because this surgery had killed most of the people that had undergone it, and he couldn't bear the thought of Brian dying on their say so. It was such an awful situation.

“Roger, we have three minutes. I know it hurts, but we need to have Brian cured. Remember his face when he collapsed, remember the horror.” John said, soft.

“DO YOU THINK IT'S NOT THE ONLY THING I'M THINKING ABOUT! ALL I DO IS REMEMBER!”

“We need him to be okay, we need to save him, not just buy him time, right? Help us save him.”

Roger sobbed, then nodded, then screamed.

When the doctor came back, he found a broken up Roger being comforted by John, the sound of sobbing heard in the whole hallway. Freddie looked at him with an uncharacteristically somber expression.

“Do the surgery.”

“You're making the right choice, Mr. Mercury.”

“Just... be careful with him. He's delicate.”

The next hours were the worst of their lives, the worst by far. They had to wait while Brian could be dying – dying on their others.

“No news is good news, right?” Roger kept saying, a frantic look on his eye.

But it wasn't good news, it was simply ignorance. The minutes were longs as centuries, the hours were millennia. The entirety of Queen, the great rock was on the verge of collapsing, completely lost on tears and on death and irreparable loss.

Would they be able to continue on the band without Brian? Would they be able to look at each other if he died and they'd had a part on it? Freddie anxiously scribbled songs, a song about guilt, about about taking those you love for granted, a song about the horrors of near death. Full of metaphors, of course, but all for Brian, their lovely and soft-spoken guitarist, practically their spokesperson, one of the creative geniuses that had brought the band where it was, and could take it so much further. Not just them would lose a dear friend, but the world would lose a remarkable human being.

Roger was crying again, unable to process the misery of having to wait to know if Brian would live. He was crying loudly, being wracked by full-body sobs, wanting to cry for the rest of eternity. John was holding him and shushing him, trying to focus on Roger to forget about everything else. Look at Roger, help Roger, since he couldn't help anyone else. He couldn't even think about it, so he just held the drummer. Freddie wanted to cry too. He wanted this whole thing to be over, he wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He wrote a bit of a song living on a nightmare as well. Song lyrics were his only comfort.

Everyone held their breaths as they saw the doctor approaching, finally, a good six hours later. They hadn't slept or ate since Brian collapsed, and everyone was looking terrible. But they didn't matter, not now. All that mattered was what this doctor had to say.

He seemed to be smiling. He was smiling, right? He looked at those three the blonde one with his face crossed by tears, his green eyed biting on his friend, the dark eyed one surrounded by papers that fell on the floor.

“The surgery was successful, we manage to find and close the bleed. He should make a full recovery.”

There were many tears of joy, hugs, and all around happy expressions. He'd made it. They'd made it. Brian took some time to become stable, but the next night Freddie, Roger and John were let in (it was supposed to be only one person at a time, but they made an exception). Brian was still very weak and couldn't very well yet, but he managed to draw a little smile when he saw his friends, squeezed Roger's hand on his. They hadn't lost him, not yet. They'd made the right choice – and Brian could recover now, could continue being everything he was. Intelligent, talented, kind, brave.

He was alive, he would live – and that was enough.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He’d been different the whole day. No one had noticed much because Roger and Freddie had been bickering the whole day, for one thing or another, and everyone had been busy either in that or trying to defuse it. John had noticed something but imagined it had to do with Brian simply having a bad day. Nothing to be too worried about. 

The truth was that Brian was feeling really tired and kind of cold despite wearing his hoodie all the way on that very hot spring day. Roger’s and Freddie’s raised voices were only making his headache worse, they were really hurting him. After some many hours trying to get everything right, John and Freddie left to have some drinks and Roger was left alone with Brian, just the two of them.

Roger asked his guitarist friend what were his thoughts about the new album now that John and Freddie weren’t there and they could talk completely freely. But Brian just blinked, slowly and heavily and uttered a dense low:

“Sorry, what?”

That’s when Roger noticed something was off with his friend. His eyes were glossy and bright, his cheeks were red even if he was shivering and hadn’t been in the sun (or heard something flattering) and his movements seemed to be slower, more painful. 

“You ok, Bri?”

Brian drew a small smile he directed Roger’s way as he clumsily tried to pack his things. 

“Just a stupid headache.”

Roger frowned. Headaches weren’t all that bad, you couldn’t actually see headaches. And Roger could clearly see that something was going on with Brian, could see that he was sick. He’d probably been sick for a while because it had been a bad day at the studio and he probably felt that him saying he didn’t feel well probably didn’t help anyone. Stupid selfless Brian. 

“Shit, Brian, you're burning up! What didn't you say anything?”

“Band... issues...”

“Yeah, like the issue that we have a guitarist who doesn't say he's sick until he collapses on us! Shit, Bri, you really gotta say something!”

“Roger...”

“Okay, I won't scream at you while you're sick, but the minute you're better, Brian, I swear to god...”

“Thanks.”

“You leave your guitar there, I'll have John pick it up, ok? Let's go.”

Brian looked at him quizzically. 

“Your coming to mine so I can keep an eye on you, all right? No complaining. Being alone when you're sick can be dangerous. Especially with a fever as high as that. Gosh, Brian!”

When they were at Roger's place, the blonde helped his friend to his own bed. 

“But.... your bed...”

“I'm not gonna put you in the couch when you're half dead, am I? I'll sleep fine, don't you worry.”

But Brian's fever addled mind worried, because it felt that this was wrong and yet had no energy to fight. 

“Roger...”

There it was again, that hand on his forehead, cool and calming. 

“Shit, I think it's even worse now. And it probably will get worse at night, won't it? Just... I'll find you some comfy clothes and get you in bed, ok? Let me look after you for a bit, Bri. Please.”

It was not like Roger to say please, to look as worried as this, so Brian imagined it must be serious (his head was getting fuzzier and fuzzier every minute) and followed Roger's instructions. He went to the bedroom, with heavy slow steps and waited sitting in the bed while Roger fetched some sweatpants and a big tee. 

The world seemed unknown around him, his head hurt and he felt cold. Shivers ran through him, but no jacket or blanket looked like it could help. His mouth felt dry, but he had no desire for water (or anything else). The world was bad, now that he had no guitar to distract him from how shitty he felt. He would just stay in that bed, cold and tired and feeling awfully sick until hopefully he stopped existing.

When Roger found the clothes, he found Brian in the same place where he'd left him, with that odd flush in his cheeks and a lost look in his eye. He left the clothes next to the man and called him softly: 

“Hey, come on, put these on, they're comfier, you'll feel better.”

Brian did so, painfully slowly as he felt that each and every one of his muscles was hurting. It was difficult and it took too long but he managed to put it and get in the bed. 

Roger was a bit worried, he didn't feel all that equipped to deal with this, even if he'd immediately offered his care. A hangover he knew how to manage, but this.... When was a fever too high? What exactly was he supposed to do? Was it normal that Brian was so out of it? He had no idea. 

He soaked a hand towel on cool water and put it on Brian's brow, to relieve the heat a bit somehow. He tried not to think about Victorian people who died on beds just like these, with pained expressions just like Brian's, who died from “fevers”... And yet he was thinking about it. He needed to do something more, something helpful. 

“Hey, do you want some water? Something to eat?” Roger asked, sitting on the bed, on the other side from where Brian was. 

Those glassy hazel eyes focused on him for a bit before whispering. 

“Not hungry.”

But he probably needed some broth or medicine or something, right? How was he going to get better if he was completely depleted of energy and had no fuel to recover? But Brian refused everything he brought, sometimes almost crying and Roger didn't know what to do. 

When he put a thermometer on it read almost 40 degrees, and Roger was scared. So he did what any self-respecting responsible adult would do, and called his mum. 

“He's so sick, mum, he looks so bad, so ill.”

Roger's mum smiled to herself. Her son may be a womanizing rockstar and musical prodigy, but when he got worried he sounded just like the sweet teen he used to be. 

“How bad is the fever?”

“It's almost fourty. And I think it's still going up.”

Well, that wasn't good. She knew Brian and perfectly remembered how skinny the young man was, how frail he looked. More than one evening when both him and Roger were in uni Brian had stayed with them and she'd been tempted to feed that man everything in her pantry. 

“Ok, give him water, no matter if he refuses. No food, because he would probably throw up. The fever would probably get higher at night, yes, but it should break by morning. If tomorrow morning it's still over fourty you take him to the hospital. If it starts going down just keep him in bed, make sure he's warm and comfortable, keep getting him water. I'd advise you not to give him anything solid until the afternoon, at least. And check the temperature every once in a while, yes, dear? And make sure the cloth you use for his brow is changed often.”

“Noted.”

“And send him my love, will you? I do hope he gets better soon.”

“Thanks, mum, I will.”

But his mother's indications didn't less his worry. Roger spend practically the whole night awake, changing the wet cloth, shushing Brian when he got caught on a nightmare, checking that his temperature hadn't gone too up. It was really distressing seeing Brian so sick, so pale, suffering even in his sleep, the hair sticking to the face with sweat. He looked horrible, small and diminished in that bed, when Brian had always being so tall and imposing. 

It was wrong. 

When morning came the fever went down a bit, and the nightmares seemed to be gone too, things calmed. Roger woke up from sleeping (although he didn't remember falling asleep) at about noon. He cleaned his face and got a change of clothes. His friend looked better this morning, not healed at all, but better. 

Not like a Victorian man dying from fevers, but like a guitarist who was resting because he felt a bit ill. Satisfied, he went to get some water for Brian and when he came back, hazel eyes were looking back at him. 

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

“No, thank you for not dying on me from fever. But next time....”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll say something.”

“Good. Now, sit up, let's watch some horrible tv.”

“Rog, I....”

“Yeah, yeah, you're grateful. But what are friends for, huh?”

Friends look after you. 

Friends help. 

Friends care. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave some feedback if you liked!


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